


The Memories of Caleb Quinn

by Azuiden



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Memories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azuiden/pseuds/Azuiden
Summary: You are the Observer. You reach into the fog with the Auris and pluck out the memories of one of the many chosen by the Entity.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Memory of: Caleb's Return to Hellshire Penitentiary

There was yelling. Dozens of voices, all jeering and mocking interspersed with howling laughter. They’re not unfamiliar voices and none of them are directed at Caleb. It took him a moment to realize where he was and who he was standing over.

Henry Bayshore coughed, blood splashing from his lips over his already cut and bruised face. His face was twisted and disfigured, but they were old wounds. From before this. From what Caleb did to him that landed the bounty hunter in prison in the first place.

Even before Caleb, though, Henry wasn’t an attractive man. He had a round face and utterly  _ average _ features. If it weren’t for the thick eyebrows and gratuitous beard, he could have been forgettable. But Henry was rich and he spent all too much on his grooming and impeccable suits as one so prolific as him was expected to. There was a conscious effort in making his appearance come off as  _ too important to pay attention to you _ . Whether that was true or not, Caleb didn’t know, nor did he care. Caleb liked to keep to himself, he just wanted to live his life.

After Caleb, Henry’s nose was crooked from having been broken under an angry fist. His entire face was a mess of scars from rugged work boots ripping and tearing flesh. The lazy left eye was a result of one too many blows that could have taken his vision all together if his assailant had been more coordinated. Henry spent months healing. Not even the best doctors could prevent the infection from eating at his broken face. But he did survive and it wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say that many of those who knew Henry wondered if surviving was worth it.

With another sickening crack, old scars were torn open once more. The Deathslinger felt as if he was viewing himself from behind a glass wall. He was enraged, fury bubbling through every inch of his being, and though he couldn’t feel the swing of his arm connect, he felt a sadistic glee in seeing the man who  _ ruined his life _ slowly disappear under a blanket of red. 

It was only when Caleb stood that he finally took in his surroundings. Several of his men were taking turns testing their boots against the warden’s sides. Still, behind his glass wall, he could only regard the man with contempt. If Henry hadn’t been here, the warden would have been the one he broke his knuckles against. The anger he felt was cold. A calculated rage that numbed every part of him. 

Just like before, though, seeing his handiwork,  _ what he wrought, _ nothing changed. The cruel nothingness in his gut didn’t give way to any sense of closure. The creeping cold still wanted blood.


	2. Memory of: Reginald Durg

Caleb was small for his age. At seven years old, he was nearly a full inch shorter than his peers and several pounds lighter. His arms were like sticks and he had sunken eyes, not from malnutrition but genetics. His father was a thin man too. Gaunt cheeks and bony fingers that would have given him a dire look were he not the sort that wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a warm man, kind and full of love for life itself. Caleb admired him, wanted to be just like him. He wanted to love life freely and indiscriminately. 

His back hit the hot dirt. Pebbles that had spent the better part of the day baking in the sun burned the palms of his hands when Caleb tried to catch himself. Reginald Durg stood over him, casting a shadow over Caleb.

 _“Bang!”_ Reginald laughed as he pointed a toy gun of carved and painted wood at the boy he had just knocked to the ground.

How was he supposed to love life when people like Reginald existed? Caleb began to lift himself off the ground. A boot to the chest pinned him back down before he could even get footing.

"You're _dead_." Reginald said. "Dead people don't move."

"I ain't playing around." Caleb grumbled. He didn't want to play with _Reginald_. He was a bully, and Caleb was already beginning to catch on that these games were just excuses to shove him around.

"You're dead!" Reginald insisted. This time he pointed the wooden toy at his head. The painted barrel pressed against Caleb's forehead when he sat up.

Their eyes locked. Caleb _hated_ Reginald. He wished Reginald would just leave him alone. He imagined what Reginald would think if their positions were reversed. Then he would see that shoving people around wasn't so fun if they didn't even want to play with you in the first place. 

But, Reginald hadn't done anything wrong. He imagined what his dad would say. Being too rough wasn't cause for concern, maybe. That Reginald just wanted to be his friend. That he should have some fun and play- _you can’t stay cooped up inside with me all day._

He could, and he really wanted to. Not because he was afraid of the outside or of making friends, but because he was fiercely intrigued with his dad’s vocation.

Reginald nudged Caleb with the toy expectantly. “Did you hear me?” 

_No, dead people can’t hear either._ Caleb thought at the other, bitterly.

Caleb, with a sour expression, laid back into the dirt.


	3. Memory of: The Workshop

Caleb sketched in the corner of his father’s workshop. He was no artist by any means, but his drawings need only be comprehensible, not _good_. 

He had been learning so much from his dad in just the last few years. According to his father, Caleb was a brilliant mind and a startlingly fast learner. Genius was the word he used. Caleb wasn’t so sure about that, his dad had a tendency to embellish. It was out of kindness, he wanted his son to feel special. He moved to America for opportunities that they didn’t have in Ireland- or something like that- his dad also discouraged learning too deeply about their Irish roots. 

The door to the workshop cracked open and in came his father. His eyes sweeped the tight space before landing on Caleb, slouched on a stool and using the window’s light to illuminate the well used journal.

“A leanbh, what are you doing here? You should be outside with your friends.” He said with a thick accent. The old man crossed over to the other.

_Pft. Friends._

Caleb quickly flipped a page in his journal with a practiced discretion. “I’m sketching ideas, pa. For us to work on together. See?” He flipped the notebook around and held it up to be viewed. His father leaned down and ran his fingers through the graying mustache while he deciphered the rough plans presented to him.

“A gun?”

“A toy gun.” Caleb corrected with a smile. It was a perfect idea, the perfect project. His dad could consider it Caleb’s way of relating to the other children and with guidance Caleb could learn and indulge himself in the way he truly wanted to. Of course, pa could hardly refuse the idea.

“You’re really wanting to impress, aren’t you? I’ll tell you what, I’m helping down at the mill today, but tomorrow we can start on that, yeah?” 

His father’s talents were wasted working at the sawmill— or the mine, or the stables, or the dozens of other odds jobs he took up. But Caleb nodded with a tight smile and when he was alone once more he flipped the page back to where he sketched an alternate version of his toy gun. 

This design was similar, albeit with a few numbers changed here and there. The hammer acted as a cinch that would pull back a spring, and the release of the trigger would propel whatever was in the chamber forward. Caleb was still figuring out ways to increase velocity.


	4. Memory of: Regret

Reginald lay writhing on the ground, clutching his face. Caleb thought he could see blood beginning to well between trembling fingers. He had never seen Reginald in such a vulnerable position before. Crying, shouting in pain, cursing and taking the lord’s name in vain to such an extent that Caleb thought god himself might come down from the heavens and ask him to quiet it down a little. 

Caleb ran as soon as he realized what had happened. He ran back home, back to his father's workshop where he drew the shutters on the window and sat hiding in the darkened room. He listened to the muffled sounds of life continuing outside while his heart beat furiously in his chest.

The smell of the workshop- familiar scents of turpentine and iron- reminded him he was still holding his toy gun. Well, it couldn't really be called a toy anymore, could it?

Should he have been afraid? No, maybe panicked was more appropriate. Caleb knew there were correct ways to react to something like this, but he could hardly suppress the smile that began spreading over his face. It was at least a little bit funny, Caleb let himself admit. For all the times parents have told their children to _be careful, you might put your eye out…_

No, no. That wasn't right. He didn't _want_ this. Not really. Caleb wasn't some sadist like _Reginald Durg._ He didn't hurt people for the sense of power or the joy of it. He didn't hurt people, full stop.

This was penance, this was the feeling of justice served.

Caleb wasn't the only victim of the Durg boy. Who knew how many other kids had been terrorized by Reginald and his friends. If all of it came together, then a little bit of blood was, in Caleb's opinion, less than should have been paid for retribution. 

He turned the “toy” over in his hands, fingers brushing over the sanded and finished handle where his father had carved Caleb’s name into the side. A pang of guilt stabbed into his chest. Not for the boy who may very well may be left with impaired depth perception for the remainder of his life, but for what he did to something his father had put so much care into.


	5. Memory of: Warden Briggs I

"The American Frontier Engineering Society." The warden gave a low whistle, "That sounds all sorts of refined. What's the frontier need an engineering society for anyways?"

"For the folk who live there," Caleb said matter-of-factly. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but his bluntness did come off that way occasionally. He was much more interested in the letter’s contents, though he was doing his best to hide it. "What's it say?"

"We at the American Frontier Engineering Society,” Warden Briggs started, clearing his throat, “have been made aware of recent transgressions that have led to your incarceration at Hellshire Penitentiary. Though we don't doubt your capacity or passion for the profession at large, as a member of AFES, you represent the interest of all professional practitioners in the American territories and beyond. Therefore, after heavy deliberation, you are henceforth excommunicated from the council and will hold a lifetime ban on reapplication for membership.”

Warden Briggs adjusted his spectacles as he read the remainder of the letter to himself. After a moment he picked up the envelope it was delivered in to reexamine it. “I had no idea you were such an educated man, Mr. Quinn.” 

Caleb let out a breath of air that could be considered a laugh, “Lotta good education done me.” He raised his wrists up and the dangle of chains echoed in the tight office space. It was the best he could do to hide the disappointment at the news. When he got out in a couple decades, he’d have a reputation scarred by violence _and_ disgrace. This was just another kick while he was down.

“Well, you should consider yourself lucky. Man of your age, you could have been drafted.”

“Lucky?” 

The warden smiled, “Not the right word, in hindsight.”

Caleb gave a nod with the ghost of an amicable smile, “Do you read all your inmate’s mail? Wouldn’t have called me in here if you didn’t know what it said, would you, warden?”

"I read _your_ mail and I'm glad I did, this explains what you've been scribbling in your notebook day in and out."

Privacy was hard to come by in a prison. You could spend hours alone in a cell by yourself and never once have an ounce of it. Caleb couldn't say it bothered him that much. He enjoyed the peace. He wished there was a little more quiet, though. “Could have explained those to you myself, if you were curious.”


	6. Memory of: Warden Briggs II

“Do you know the sorts of men we keep here? Gibbering idiots, psychotic murderers, damn near animals. They’re here because they deserve it. It's penance. That's why it's called a penitentiary.” Briggs jerked his head to a guard who then entered Caleb’s cell and promptly returned clutching something. A familiar journal was placed into the waiting palm of the warden. He began flipping through the pages, intensely studying the images and notes scrawled out within.

Caleb didn’t grace the warden with a response. He just slouched, neither impressed nor perturbed by the insult- whether intentional or not.

 _“Not you,_ Mr. Quinn.” Warden Briggs added after as if suddenly remembering who it was he was speaking to, “No, no, these are brilliant. Resourceful.”

Caleb waited for the damning _“But…”_ that he’d heard so often in his life. Some sort of remark on his character or appearance. The implication that it was his _ideas_ that were brilliant and resourceful rather than him as a whole was not lost on him. He might have agreed with that assessment if the warden had said it out loud.

The warden glanced at Caleb, “Inspired, I’d dare say.”

“Kind of you to say, warden.”

“Please, just Briggs is fine.” The warden opened his mouth to speak, though there was a bit of hesitance before he unceremoniously segued into the beginnings of his question, “I want to reform my prisoners, Mr. Quinn.”

“Please, just Caleb is fine.” Caleb interrupted.

“Caleb,” The warden corrected, with a tilt of his head, “I am a god-fearing man, and while I don’t dare to claim to understand his plan, I do believe that some prisoners here are beyond saving. With traditional methods. Mr- _Caleb_ , I think we share a prevailing idea here.” The warden shook the opened journal in his hand.

Caleb’s stare was unwavering and gave away nothing.

“This one, do you think it would strike the fear of god into someone? Do you think it’d convince them to repent?” Briggs flipped the book around to tap at one of the many dark imaginings Caleb had put to paper.

“It’ll make ‘em wish they were dead… Or make ‘em wish you were dead.” The corners of his mouth twisted up in a reserved but self-amused grin.

There was a silence from the warden, one that nearly began to worry Caleb. But soon followed a guffawing laughter and a finger that jabbed into his chest like a knife, _“You,_ I like you.” 

Caleb laughed meekly compared to the strength behind Briggs’. The warden wasn’t too bad himself, he guessed.


	7. Memory of: Fynn Turley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Wasn't happy with this chapter so I rewrote a good portion of it!

Half a dozen inmates shuffled in a line to where they would be working for the day. The chain connecting them by the ankle was too short to allow for full steps and was weighed down heavily by a cast iron ball that had to be carried by whoever was heading the ensemble.

The group was led out into the middle of nowhere, or so it seemed. They were each handed a shovel and told to dig. Hard labor was part of their reform. The splinters in their palms, the dizziness from working long hours in the heat; just a small part of what would apparently, transform them into upstanding citizens. The chain gang was composed entirely of immigrants, former slaves, and their children. No one mentioned it. Dig.

_ But why? Why dig? _ The youngest in the lineup kept asking. Complaining.  _ It was pointless to dig, there was nothing here. _ The accent he spoke with reminded Caleb of his father.

The questioning made the guard visibly irritated.  _ Irrigation. For the farms _ , the prisoner was told with a tone of authority and a hand on the stick that would be used to beat them should they fall too out of line.

That seemed to quell the boy’s fire somewhat. He instead plunged and jerked his shovel at the ground with the unmistakable bite of a man scorned. 

“Boy, you don’t watch yourself, there ain’t gonna be anything to watch over when we’re done here,” Caleb warned in a harsh whisper. The prisoners weren’t meant to talk or acknowledge each other, but the guards rarely paid complete attention.  _ Keep your head down, don’t make trouble. _ That was how he survived at Hellshire Penitentiary. He’d learned that lesson long ago multiple times over. The only time he’d known trouble was when he broke that unspoken rule.

The boy snickered, shaking his head dismissively. He wrapped his fingers awkwardly around the shovel and kicked his heel into the spade to drive it indignantly into the hard soil. 

_ Cocky. Hellshire would beat the arrogance out of him sooner or later,  _ Caleb thought as he craned his head to get a good look at his fellow inmate. 

The stranger had red shoulder-length hair with the wispy beginnings of a mustache accenting his rounded face. Slim, lean muscle aided their assault of the dry dirt that they were tasked with relocating. Couldn’t have been more than 20. He’d have to remember to stay away from this one — more so than he was normally inclined to.

“It’s the warden.” The boy said, suddenly.

Caleb furrowed his brows quizzically.

He raised a hand, flipping it over to bring attention to the scars that ran along the back. “You were having a gander, right? The damn warden. Bastard.” 

“The warden did that to you?” Now that they were pointed out, the scars were hard to miss. The boy’s knuckles were red and purple as if he’d been in a fight, but whereas bruising from a fight would only spot and scrape the bone that jutted out from the hand, these ran down in jagged rivets that disappeared under his sleeve.

“One of his damn machines did. He didn’t get to you yet?” The boy gave a curt laugh as if the horror of what had been done to him was nothing at all. The bitterness of tone didn’t match the energy. 

Caleb shook his head. They weren’t his machines anymore, so he didn’t bother correcting. 

“Then he will. Thinks he’s a righteous man. Full of vengeance and fury. Frankly? I just think he likes it. Fecking nut.” The boy held the gnarled hand out to Caleb and it took him a moment to realize it was to shake, not to gawk at. “Name’s Fynn, by the way.”

“Caleb.” He shook Fynn’s hand quickly, glancing over his shoulder to be sure that the guard wasn’t watching. “What did you do?”

“What did I  _ do _ ?”

“Must’ve done something.” Caleb’s eyes dipped back down to the bruised appendages. The boy’s unique brand of vitriol both confused and intrigued him. He had a hard time imagining a kid doing anything to warrant that sort of punishment.

Fynn snorted, shaking his head. “No man on earth who hasn’t done something. And if I hadn’t, big bastard would have found a reason.”


	8. Memory of: A Drink or Three

Tequila wasn’t Caleb’s drink of choice. 

The Hellshire Gang had met a family of four traveling the opposite way while tracking a bounty through Louisiana. Together, they shared stories by the fire and Caleb remembered the delight of the strangely energetic lethargy afforded by the spirit with fondness. It was the opposite of itself, much like he was. 

Sometimes he would share a bottle with the gang, trying to chase the camaraderie and jovial atmosphere experienced that night. The nostalgia, if it could be called that, was bittersweet. The more he had, the harder it was to push out the memory of the same family, a few days later. Their faces contorted in disgust at the stink of rot. Expressions intermingled with fear when they saw the poorly concealed corpse under bloody linen, gutted. 

Caleb had smiled at them, waved, and they _ran_.

Opposite of itself. “How could that be possible?” Caleb mused. A walking contradiction. Like his gun, The Redeemer, a weapon born from a cold rage and baptized in blood. Named so because he was bringing justice, wasn’t he? 

“You're asking the wrong person.”

Caleb turned to his side to see one of the longest-standing members of the gang. His right-hand man. The crazy red hair was showing signs of graying which he was much too young for. “Aren’t I?”

Fynn shifted in his spot, bringing himself into a more upright position to focus his less-than-sober mind on a response. “You didn’t do this to me.” He held up a scarred hand.

Somber eyes turned to the neck of the bottle in his hand instead. 

“I mean it,” Fynn insisted. There was a pause to let Caleb respond but when he didn’t Fynn continued. “You know, when I found out you were the one who designed that damn thing, I was raging. But I’d gotten out because of you, so I thought to myself. Aye, I’ll stick with him for now and blow him off when I get the chance to make a break for it. I wanted you dead but I wanted to be gone more.”

“You’re charming, you know that?”

“Shut it, I’m not done,” Fynn said with a shove at Caleb’s shoulder. “The more I stuck around, the more I realized it wasn’t you who done it, it was the Warden. You were just trying to get by the same as me.”

“So you wanted me dead and now you don’t? Nicest thing anyone's said to me. I'll remember that.”

“Never said that.” Fynn said with a chuckle, “I think I’m still angry. ‘Specially when my hands cramp or start shakin’. But I like you too. What’s it you said? Walkin’ Contradiction. I think it’s just how people are.” 

Caleb pressed his lips into a line. He didn’t look back at his companion, but he knew Fynn was used to his long bouts of aloof silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his alcohol stained breath out in a long huff. “I prefer whiskey.”


End file.
